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Navigation between pages has always been one of my preferred topics and same was true for today. Nevertheless, for a person like me it was today not a favourite, but one disheartening thing to do. I somehow slipped up on a video shared by certain page which was linked up to a recent incident that took place at Kaaw Mohalla, Khanyar on the eve of Eid-UL-Zuha. One unfortunate incident which too will drop dead in the law books against a thirst for justice and ultimately will result in one futile exercise of hope.

Well, a point here is that what make me write today after a long pause about such incident? I have already written numerous articles about the society’s evils and this too is no exception to them. So, for today what is it that made me once again pour my agony in these scripted lines. It is nothing except the “False show of humanity” that irked me of that video. The journalist is asking a lady who has lost her daughter in one of the heart scissoring incidents, “Tueh paeyth kya chuw mouj waeynken baitaan? (Mother, what is right now happening to you?) , Tueh kya chuw gasaan weayn kenas? (What is happening to you right now?), Tueh kya chuw basaan? (What do you feel about it?) and so on. Come on, Mr. Journalist first you call her mother then you ask her about how she feels of an incident of losing a daughter to the flames of inhumane society? How will you feel when, God forbid, your sister/female parent/daughter will ash down to dust and someone will build a story on how you feel right now about it? Even in a wildest of an imagination of such tragedy will send shivers down the spine. What sort of journalism is this? Disgusting! This is no new narrative, no new crime, ample number of such crimes take place each day, each hour, each second. Forget about getting a space in local dailies they don’t even get a person to mourn. They rest like never existing creatures in the earth full of sorrow.

Hah! This video actually played so bad that I found no better option other than stopping it there and the first 17 seconds have frozen in me. They are pain to watch. Doubtless, this video must have been made to show inhumanity, but while brings down the curtains of shame the discipline of journalism lost its own to “Fake sympathy”.

Offense is constantly clear. It is we who have blindfolded the eyes, it is we who feed it, it is we who actually nourish it and it is we who finally complain about it. It is the S.O.C.I.E.T.Y… even words don’t suit to be merged. Such tragedy!

Let me ask you a few simple questions,

How many times you have uttered when something improper is going on, even in your family or in the neighbourhood or in area around?

Have you ever done anything apart from being a mute spectator? Or being a person who watches and discusses do’s and do not’s at back?

In case you have done your bit, how well your family has supported it?

How many times you have reported wrong? Ever? Or just never?

There are so many questions and so less of an expectance of any right. Change is not one day march that we will shout and the next day it will be served. It is a struggle. It is a freedom from doomed ideology. It is a fire to orthodox ideas, cultural burdens, and above all the light into a deep lesion. To get it, we need to starve for it, else this article is only a burden to trash. In simpler words it is not about “who, when and how will save the girl”, instead it is all about “I will save the girl”.

A wish, a supplication, a desire to see an elegant beauty of endurance, the only conceptual truth that the heart knows and brain keeps trying to carry out. The ability of synchronizing pictures into a flow of a perfect scene like notes of the music aligned on one sheet producing mesmerizing beats and sinking hearts in an ode of classical melodies. A series of phantasmagoria that develop in the darkness of the night like small parachutes of the dandelion forming a beautiful yet too delicate flower. This is a beauty of the dream rising from nowhere, when even the psyche holds no hint if it is playing along the mass lying in the strata of the comfort cozy place, contributing to the creation of a fantasy. The aspiration is just not for a dreamer to see and enjoy, simply for a persona it is an ability to set a foundation during dark and host it as a fortune to the world during the day.

With the Oceanic depth,

Flowing and then resting forever,

Within the cast of the gambler, “the red mass”,

They mimic the truth and the lies of the world.

…

Away from the lips,

Untouched by the foreign ink,

They die poisonously for one thought,

From where, none ever returned back.

…

Dead! As if the poet was never born,

The couplets stay, echoing within the core,

To whom the pensive mood was a friend,

And the virtual calmness, the reflection.

P.S:This is student’s dream. Difficult to understand and harmless to be executed, but enough of strength needed to get it finished.

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In the heaven-
A song of welcome was sung,
The choir was loud-
A youthful face was a guest.

The fairies, the birds and the flowers,
Dancing, singing and tossing their heads,
Waiting for a blossom from paradise’s chest,
Cheerful, colourful and the sparkling eyes,
Fate of which the angel of death did declare-
Hearts skip a beat and faces turned dull,

Some crying-
“How can it be a farewell?
How can it be for an eternity?”

Some murmuring-
“It was an end of her dream, And
A step into the real world now.”

Some silent –
“Addressing the self,
Consoling the fear within.”

And all –
Trying to believe,

The Allah’s delivered truth –
“Yesterday, it was a tragedy
Today, it was a farewell
Tomorrow, it is a belief
And memory now forever.”

~A.N

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Taking our clocks back by a year, I remember the 8th Feb as just another ordinary day, smuggling and crossing over the thin line between the two dates, eight and nine. Too calm to hold the secrets of execution, very much strong to maintain the silence, leading to the gallows and still briefing us about nothing.

Like the faithfulness of a man, it (time) too fell prey to an anxious silence, a deserted belief, destined to the beautiful morning that faked a life like an icicle meeting up the bright rays descending from the sun on an unexpected harsh winter morning.

We all are destined to death, for its beauty and in hope of paradise we keep briefing ourselves about good and bad. But who knows how, where and in what situation we going to leave. Indubitably, no men stay immortal, though remembrance makes one so.

9thof February, as in today, would have never meditated enough to be remembered for an age to come, generations to move on but the tragedy made it believe the smuggling agony by the seconds that passed by. Over the will of Almighty no one’s supremacy does rule. This to him was known only difference is we would/could have never believed the cause to have been so.